Famiglia
by White as Sin
Summary: Fusion of APH and KHR. Vargas Decimo is very close to his famiglia, particularly his chosen Guardians. No matter how odd they seem.


**Title:** Famiglia**  
Fandom:** Axis Powers Hetalia/Katekyo Hitman Reborn**  
Genre(s):** Drama/Action & Adventure/Crossover & Fusion**  
Character(s)|Pairing(s):** North Italy, America, Russia, China, England, France, Japan, Germany, mentions of Rome and Germania**  
Rating/Warning(s):** PG-13, violence, language  
**Word Count:** 1,941  
**Summary:** Fusion of APH and KHR. Vargas Decimo is very close to his famiglia, particularly his chosen Guardians. No matter how odd they seem.

* * *

No one understands the rag tag bunch that surrounds the diminutive head of the Vargas family. Oh, they understand the sheer power of his Lightning and Storm Guardians, no matter how the two bicker. They fear his ever-smiling, gargantuan Cloud, who lingers in the background but never vanishes, and the silent steps of his diminutive Rain. Men and women fight their attraction to his charming Sun and warily regard the panda-toting, androgynous Mist.

They wonder most about his Second the most, a man who calmly, competently does all duties to be expected of three men, which includes tying the Head's shoe laces (albeit while grumbling under his breath).

"Why so many foreigners?" grumble the other Families. "Not one drop of Italian blood in them."

Romius, Vargas Primo, would be turning in his grave, surely, at what his descendents had wrought. But then again… that spelled his end, didn't it? Taking in that German as one of his Guardians had been his greatest mistake; the icy, traitorous German had stabbed him in the back in the end, giving the man such an ignoble end.

Clearly, Vargas Decimo has not learned from history.

Feliciano Vargas always takes siesta at precisely three in the afternoon. He never goes to the same spot, however, choosing to shift around from place to place. For today, he has fallen asleep in the great antique leather wingback armchair that graces the marble and oak desk of the Vargas heads. He draws his legs in, curling up like a cat in the embrace of a chair that is too big for him. In it, he seems too much like a child, not helped by his still full cheeks and slight frame.

Unfortunately for him, his chair had been pushed slightly away from his desk, turned slightly away, presenting an innocently slumbering target to an opportune assassin. As the man adjusts his scope, willing himself to remain still, he becomes aware of a quiet menace right behind him. The man never sees it coming.

At half past four, Vargas Decimo wakes up from his siesta and greets his pet cat. He has a cup of heavily sweetened coffee and a selection of biscotti and he stares at the pile of paperwork before delicately pushing most of it aside with his pencil.

Then he nearly splashes coffee over himself as he hears an explosion from the east wing of the mansion. Even from his office, he can pick up the outraged bellows in a stream of mostly incomprehensible English. Feliciano doesn't sigh but he writes a scribbled note for an invoice for renovation and a reminder to meet with Vash next week. The banker will be irritated but some things cannot be helped. He stares at the request for new uniforms made out in Francis's neat, beautiful writing (in gold ink this time) and discards it before picking out another note at random (a request for a new car because the last one was now somewhere in the bottom of the Tiber).

When the Second of the Vargas family walks in at fifteen minutes past five (always right on the minute), impeccable dark suit missing a single cufflink and a single strand of gold blonde hair out of place, he finds his boss with an enormous sketch pad on his lap, drawing the slumbering form of the cat on his desk. Ludwig breathes just a little unevenly but otherwise looks unruffled and completely collected.

"Are we not meeting with Marochetti family today?" asks Feliciano pleasantly, only glancing up momentarily. But he already catches and internalizes the little wrong signs and Ludwig knows it.

"There has been a change in plans," says the German, his Italian rather good for a man who had only started learning it four years prior.

"It's a shame. Signora Marochetti makes such wonderful tiramisu," sighs Feliciano with genuine regret. "And her nieces are so adorable."

"Kiku has been injured."

The pencil tip breaks against the sketch pad and the bit of graphite drops onto the floor. "How badly?" The Italian's voice holds no tremble or worry but its edges start to crystallize.

Ludwig actually hesitates but he goes on. "Francis is with him and has him stabilized and healing."

"How bad?" repeats Feliciano very levelly.

"His left arm. Almost up to the elbow."

Feliciano considers his sketch. He opens his desk drawer and sets the massive pad of paper on the floor. With his other hand, he shoos away his little brown cat gently and he withdraws a small leather briefcase from the deep drawer.

"I believe that we will be paying a call to the Marochetti tonight," he says with a faint smile. "And hopefully we will not be imposing on them."

…

Feliciano rather hates the color black. Orange and blue are his favored hues, not together, of course, but separately. Blue can be brilliant or melancholy, soothing or startling. The color of the Sky's Flame never ceases to enchant him, its hue the fleeting hue only seen at sunset.

But the one good thing about black is that it hides the bloodstains so well.

Marochetti is not a particularly large Family, but they have wealth in place of numbers and that wealth is very shrewdly spent. The challenge delights Alfred to no end and Arthur has a spectacular grudge to unleash tonight. Yao cloaks their presence, not even having to use his indigo Flame, but it is mostly only used by Feliciano and Ludwig. Alfred goes barging in, green Flame akimbo, and Arthur chases after him if only to have something left to vent his spleen on, red Flame glowing like banked coals.

Ivan is nowhere to be seen for the moment, and perhaps that is for the best. Particularly because he announced his presence a few hours before by appearing in Feliciano's office with… something that left a rather gruesome stain on the antique carpet that Feliciano privately hated. There had been no point in trying to tell Ivan that capture was generally the best and most optimal course of action.

He knocks before sweeping into Marochetti's office. Politeness must be met, after all. What would they have if they didn't have manners?

Ludwig's blue Flame nullifies the barrage of bullets that comes their way. Feliciano takes a moment to admire the sight. His Second's Flame is somewhat paler than most Rain attribute Flames; Kiku's Flame, for instance, is the same deep blue of the Pacific Ocean, or the sapphire blue of a still mountain lake. But Ludwig's Flame is the same color as his eyes and they both are so-

Feliciano does not complete that thought as he considers the occupant of the office. Marochetti is not the sniveling little coward that shows up in films and other media. He is a lean, wolf-faced man of about fifty, starting to sag in the way all men do when they age. But he still has shrewd gray eyes, though currently they contained a slowly growing panic, particularly as his grip starts to tremble around the shot gun in his hands. The light of the office glitters on the six brilliantly jeweled rings upon his hands, his one visible extravagance.

"Buona sera, Signor Marochetti," says Feliciano congenially. "I am sorry that we came anyways, despite the cancelled invitation. I also didn't know that we had such differences. Sit down, sit." If the bright, brittle cheeriness doesn't convey the order, the sudden presence of an enormous Russian closing the door does.

Feliciano resists the urge to wrinkle his nose at the overpowering fumes of vodka wafting his way. He sits down in the chair in front of the desk, watching as the older man shakily sits down as well. Ludwig stands behind his chair, a perceptible, solid presence.

"And please, put the weapon away. It's rather impolite, I think- Oh dear. I really shouldn't point out rudeness in others." He smiles abashedly. "My own dear mother would probably be turning in her grave right now."

"Your mother isn't dead at all," chortles Ivan from the shut door. "I've met her. A very wonderful woman." He speaks in Russian, of course, a language that Feliciano does in fact understand, if only vaguely. "She bakes well."

It takes a minute for the Italian to figure out what has been said (or at least, infer) and he shrugs. "It is a figure of speech, Ivan," he laughs. Then he turns his attentions back to Marochetti and his bright smile takes on a pained air.

"Signor, I thought we had such a good relationship! Your wife's tiramisu alone would convince any man to retire from his post," he sighs. "If we had any disagreements, surely we could just talk it all over, no?"

Marochetti's expression slowly turns waxen. But Feliciano continues blithely, "And as for that shot… Well, we are all touchy these days, I know. And the man in the tree… we always have to deal with fools and hotheads in our famiglia. Such a shame. They're usually just so misguided." He offers a sympathetic smile.

Then he slowly widens his eyes and the light glints off red brown irises, a color called mahogany by the poetic and rust and dried blood by the morbid. He absentmindedly undoes the catches to his briefcase, the contents hidden from view.

Marochetti finds his voice. "It is nothing- personal," he says, gruffly. "It is the way of our people. It is our legacy."

"You know, Vargas Primo wrote something like that," muses Feliciano, eyes still wide open and glinting. "In one of his journals. He wrote about Princes and power and how it is better to be feared than loved. Mind you, this was some time before Machiavelli, I assure you!" His voice trails off slowly.

Marochetti's hands, kept on his desk as a gesture of good will, curl slowly into fists. Feliciano finds his train of thought again and he nods to himself. "I find it so curious though, of how you make your distaste for foreigners so very clear, and that is your opinion and you are very much entitled to it, and yet… You extended several offers to almost all of my Guardians, some of the prices you offered being very, very tempting indeed. Francis took the opportunity to ask for an increased budget for clothing, which means more paperwork."

"I broke no rules," says Marochetti quietly. Ivan murmurs something amusing but likely profane from the doorway, voice like the hissing of a winter wind.

"No, you did not," agrees Feliciano amiably. "There is nothing against offering employment. It is generally unwise to offer it to another Family's Guardians but… there are no rules against it. But, Signor Marochetti… you decided that 'No' was not an acceptable answer."

He gingerly withdraws from the opened briefcase a shining black pistol. It looks too big for the likes of the slight and short Italian but when he takes it in hand, it fits in there as if it were made for him, an elegant, terrifying creation that has no decoration, no fripperies, save for worn scrollwork down the long dark barrel.

"This is the way of our people, Signor Marochetti," Feliciano says and no humor, no smile lingers in his voice. He cocks the pistol. "But most importantly… it is my way."

Marochetti opens his mouth to protest, to bellow. In any case, he gestures with his ring bedecked hands and six colored flames flare up to life around them. Ludwig jumps a little but Ivan only smiles. Then, orange flame roars to life around the perimeters of the room. All the other colors, the red of Storm, the green of Lightning, violet of Cloud, the indigo of Mist, the yellow of Sun, the blue of Rain, vanish, swallowed by the flames matching the one flaring to life upon Feliciano's brow and upon the heavy but not incongruous gold ring upon his hand.

The smile upon the innocent, boyish face is as terrible as an angel's.

"You do not harm my famiglia."

A week later, the Vargas family sends a very tasteful, very expensive wreath to the Marochetti funeral as well as their most sincere condolences.

* * *

Inspired by a very intriguing but sadly short Prince of Tennis/Katekyo Hitman Reborn fusion

The Vargas Guardians and Attributes go as follows-

Sky (Harmonization): Italy (head of family)

Cloud (Propagation): Russia

Mist (Construction): China

Rain (Tranquility): Japan

Storm (Degeneration): England

Lightning (Solidification): America

Sun (Activation): France

Second, External Advisor (Rain Attribute): Germany

-Yes, the cat is the same one that "tries to mutiny" against North Italy. I don't have a name for it.

-If you kind of think about it, Tsuna and North Italy have a lot in common, except Tsuna's more aware of his uselessness. Or maybe not.


End file.
